


Silence in the Bakery

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:04:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loves his work in the bakery, with his brother Sam and their friend Charlie. He especially loves it right now, with the promise of romance on the horizon. But there's something not quite normal about his favourite customer; with his bright blue eyes and ruffled brown hair, he's seriously handsome, and Dean knows they have a connection - but he never speaks. Not once. Anyone else might give up, but Dean just doesn't work that way. As sure as bread is bread, Dean's going to get the mysterious stranger to speak with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence in the Bakery

**Author's Note:**

> the gorgeous [art](http://whelvenwings.tumblr.com/post/113640107121/a-little-something-i-drew-for-silence-in-the) of Dean and Cas is by [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com). thank you so, so much, love! <3
> 
> the amazing [art](http://victorian-hoecake.tumblr.com/post/116054529641/i-drew-charlie-as-a-kitchen-witch-admiring-her) of Charlie is by [victorian-hoecake](http://victorian-hoecake.tumblr.com/). you're the best, sunbeam! ;u;

Dean took a deep, deep breath, his eyes closed and a smile on his face. He was standing by the half-open hallway window, letting the lattice cross-stripe his face into diamonds of light. The early-morning sun brushed over everything, sweetening the street smells to a cream cleanliness and draping soft lights across roof tiles and eaves, like newly-washed linens. Behind his eyelids, Dean’s world was a gentle miasma of pastels. The growing hubbub of the road beneath was a low symphony of catcalls, clankings and animal noises.

“You smell that, Sammy?” Dean called over his shoulder. He heard his brother approach, heavy footsteps creaking the wooden boards of their cottage. Standing slightly behind his brother, Sam gave a cautious sniff.

“What am I supposed to be smelling?” he asked doubtfully. “Did next door’s pigs get into the street again?”

Dean turned around to face his brother, his smiling face half-haloed by the rising sun.

“ _Possibility_ , Sammy!” he said, pushing past Sam as he stepped away from the window, heading down the hall and thudding down the stairs. At the bottom, he swung himself around the wooden upright and headed for the kitchen, his brother following him with a grin. “That is the scent of possibility!”

Sam watched his brother moving around the tiny, low-ceilinged kitchen, making his morning tea with a haphazard, bombastic cheeriness that set the pots a-clatter. The coppery racket made both brothers wince, but Dean’s spirits weren’t dampened; he started whistling a little song to himself, as far off-key as was possible without coming back into tune. His tunic today was light green, belted a little more tightly than usual, Sam thought.

“What’s got you in a good mood?” he asked, reaching behind his back to make sure his apron was still tied securely. Just recently, the strings had started to feel a little too short, and his head was starting to brush against the ceiling, too.

“I told you, Sam,” Dean said, waving a teaspoon at him – the effect somewhat diminished by the way the teaspoon was misshapen, probably melted slightly when Dean had used it to stir a pot of thickening caramel or crystallising fudge. “Possibility. Today is just _full_ of it. It’s all around us, it’s in the air.” Dean’s wide eyes and lopsided, self-aware grin took the edge of ridiculousness off the statement, and Sam smiled back. “Can you smell it yet, Sammy?”

“Well… if possibility smells like the second batch of bread burning, then sure,” Sam said casually. Dean, pouring boiling water out of the tea kettle with a rough cloth protecting his hand, was too focused on his task to hear. After a moment, Sam rolled his eyes with a soft grin and headed towards the back room himself, screwing up his eyes slightly against the heat of the bread oven and reaching for the paddle. With practiced ease, he slid out a large tray of brown rolls. “Caught ‘em,” Sam called, in case Dean were listening. Judging by the sounds of china tinkling and quiet, happy humming drifting through the low door from the kitchen, Sam figured that he wasn’t.

He set the rolls out to cool, and then headed back into the kitchen just in time to see Charlie arrive. She pushed through the side door, her sleek red hair brushed back inside a neat blue headscarf which matched her cornflower floor-length dress. In one hand, she was holding a posy of flowers.

“Charlie!” Dean exclaimed, setting down his chipped teacup and striding over to her. In a single fluid movement that belied his earlier clumsiness, he wrapped his arms around her waist and picked her up.

“Dean!” Charlie cried out, laughing, as he spun her in a neat circle and then set her down gently. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I asked him the same thing,” Sam said, approaching Charlie and giving her a more conservative, but equally warm hug. “Apparently it’s because today’s air is full of possibility.”

Dean, who had moved back over to the kitchen table and was spooning a generous amount of sugar into Charlie’s tea, nodded enthusiastically.

“You’re damn right it is,” he said easily, holding out the cup to Charlie. She approached the table, sniffing the air.

“Smells more like… burning bread,” she said, taking a cautious sip of her tea and wrinkling up her mouth when it was a little too hot. Ignoring her, Dean picked up the tea kettle and replaced it carefully on the stove.

“I got it already,” Sam said. “Dean’s supposed to take care of the second batch, but apparently he was too distracted by all this crazy possibility. Funny how I’m the one who’s more awake, seeing as I’ve been up since four making the dough.”

Dean walked back over to the central table and pushed a cup of tea into his brother’s hands, accidentally slopping a little over the rim. His younger brother’s jibes couldn’t dim his smile; he picked up the posy of flowers that Charlie had laid neatly on the table and inspected them. He brushed his fingers up the soft pink petals, feeling the coolness of morning dew caught inside the rosy whorls.

“You aren’t the only one who had to get up early,” he tuned back into the conversation to hear Charlie complaining. “I was up at stupid o’clock too this morning, thanks to your brother. Those fresh enough for you, Dean?”

“Actually, they’re not perfect,” Dean said seriously. “I told you to get them once the dew evaporated, not before.”

He ducked quickly to avoid Charlie’s swipe at him, and then moved over to one of the long counters, grinning. As he laid out the roses, he half-listened to Charlie and Sam’s conversation, whilst the other half of his attention was focused on his own thoughts. He fought to keep back his smile, but he couldn’t. He started humming again, tapping his foot in time to the beat.

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam said, turning to his brother. At the sound of his name, Dean snapped out of his thoughts and turned around.

“What?” he demanded, watching Charlie finish off the last of her tea in an appreciative gulp. “Can’t a man be happy?”

“Not this happy,” Sam replied. “Not you. Not on a Monday.”

“So it’s a Monday, and I’m happy,” Dean said, shrugging. He moved across the kitchen, taking Charlie’s hand and whirling it above her head, spinning her in his arms and then dipping her. She laughed, slapping his chest playfully as she pushed him away.

“What has got _into_ you, Winchester?” she said, reaching for her own apron and tying it around her waist.

“Who says it isn’t the pleasure of working here with you two?” Dean parried, grinning at his brother, who laughed and shook his head.

“You’ve done that every day of every week for the last two years, Dean,” he said. “The only time I’ve ever seen you like this before was when you figured out how to make shortcrust pastry for the first time.”

“That was a good day,” Charlie said reminiscently over her shoulder, as she got to work chopping strawberries on another one of the counters that lined two sides of the little kitchen.

“One of the best,” Dean agreed solemnly. He gulped down the last of his own tea and began gathering up the chinaware to put in the sink.

“So, what? Did you learn a new pastry? Are we Maypole dancing early this year? Did the pub give you a regular’s discount?” Sam asked, his voice rising as he headed into the back room again. Dean and Charlie heard the faint sounds of bread rolls being shifted into wicker baskets.

“None of the above,” Dean said happily. He turned to the roses sitting on the counter, and began tenderly stripping away the individual petals. He heard the click and groan of the back door opening, as Sam went outside to pick a couple of apples from the tree in their garden.

“Did you… find a penny?” Charlie asked, not turning away from her work. The pile of chopped strawberries was growing beside her, their sweet fragrance dispelling the lingering scent of scorched bread.

“Nope.”

“Did you find two pennies?”

“No.”

“Did you find three –”

“No!”

“OK, OK, so it’s not a money thing. _Oh_!” Charlie exclaimed, and Dean whipped around, thinking she’d hurt herself with the sharp knife she used to cut up fruit. Instead, she was wide-eyed and waving said knife in Dean’s direction, with a more impressive effect than Dean’s earlier teaspoon efforts. “Is it a _romance_?”

“ _What_? No way,” Dean said, but he threw a quick look to make sure that Sam hadn’t come back through to the kitchen and heard, and his cheeks reddened ever so slightly. Charlie crowed, waving her knife around.

“Romance, that dost make fools of us all!” she declaimed, one hand on her heart, the other still clutching the knife.

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Dean said, making a huge effort to hide his grin and failing completely. “It’s not even a _thing_ , OK? It’s just… it’s just a – there’s just this guy, and –”

“I _knew it_ ,” Charlie beamed, and now the knife was pointing back at Dean again. He snorted and turned back to his roses. “I knew it! Dean’s in _looooooooove_ …”

“Hey, you wanna pipe down?” Dean said over his shoulder, but without any real bite. “I’m trying to keep this quiet, just in case it all goes belly-up before it even gets started, you know?”

“I’ll be quiet as the grave,” Charlie said mock-seriously, crossing her heart with a finger, and then turning back to work and slicing a triumphant strawberry.

“If you tell,” Dean said threateningly, “I’ll pay a bad witch to curse you that way forever, I swear.”

Charlie didn’t bother turning round to answer this; instead, she gazed up out of the window in front of her counter and sighed.

“So, what’s he like, this guy?”

Dean turned around to shoot another apprehensive look at the door through which Sam could appear at any moment. He took a couple of steps closer to Charlie and leaned against the central table, clearing his throat awkwardly and then beginning to speak in a low voice.

“I – well, he’s… he’s got brown hair, and this tiny little smile, and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen,” Dean said, finding that the details spilled as easily as milk once he started talking. “And he’s like… _chiselled._ Like a… a _knight_ or something.”

“Mmm,” Charlie said wistfully, still gazing absent-mindedly out of the window as she continued to chop strawberries into unequal quarters. “Sounds dreamy. I dated a girl with blue eyes like that, once. What else? Where did you meet?”

“Right here in the bakery,” Dean said, smiling at the memory as he ran his hand along the grain of the wooden table in the centre of the kitchen. “He’s a customer. He’s come in the last three Mondays.”

“Ahhh,” Charlie breathed out in understanding. “Hence your sudden and very unexpected love for the start of the week. I _see_. So, come on, what did you talk about? Did you ask him out yet?”

“Charlie, where’m I supposed to get the time to take him out? Where would I even take him, anyway?”

“Come on, Dean,” Charlie said, and Dean could hear her eye-roll in her voice. “Don’t make me do this. Enchanted Lake’s nice this time of year, or the White Palace ruins, or take in a show at the town square. You know all that, so you’re clearly deflecting from the first question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean muttered. “Sam’s taking his time, huh? Maybe I should go check he’s not got eaten by the… uh… elf in the apple tree.”

“We have one of those?” Charlie asked, momentarily distracted, before snapping back to her point. “What did you talk about, Dean? Come on, it can’t be that embarrassing.”

“Well – well,” Dean said wretchedly, turning away to lift a copper pan down from the rack over his head and setting it down on the counter beside the rose petals with unnecessary force, “Well, we didn’t actually – we didn’t actually talk, yet. Exactly.”

When the room went still, Dean carried on working for a moment, making little unnecessary adjustments to the placing of the pan and the bowl of separated petals. After a few seconds, though, he could delay no longer, and turned around. As he expected, Charlie was gaping at him, the strawberries behind her forgotten.

“Don’t – look, it’s not a big –” Dean began, but fell silent when Charlie held up a hand to forestall him.

“Hold up there,” she said. “Are you seriously telling me that you, Dean Winchester, Mr Baker Heartbreaker, have fallen head-over-heels for a guy that you’ve never even _spoken_ to? Are you _really_ Dean Winchester? Do my eyes deceive me? Are you some changeling child? Did you devour Dean in the night and assume his human form?”

“No, no, it’s not – shut up laughing! I mean, I’ve spoken _to_ him, obviously,” Dean said defensively. “It’s just that he’s never… exactly… spoken _back_.”

Charlie’s eyes, already wide, went round as the saucers they used to serve up cupcakes.

“So you’re essentially stalking the guy? Dude, what’s next, stealing his clothes and using them to –”

“It’s not like that!” Dean argued, hastily precluding whatever dark exploits Charlie was imagining he might get up to if left alone with some of the guy’s clothing. “He comes in and points to what he wants, and I give it to him, and then I’ll say something about – I dunno, the weather, just making conversation – and he nods, and then I wish him a nice day, and he smiles at me, and… and somehow it just hasn’t gone beyond that! But there’s this – this –” Dean knew that he was smiling again, and tried to force it back. “Ugh. Talking about it like this is getting my hopes up.”

“No, c’mon, Dean,” Charlie said. “There’s this…?”

“This way he… looks at me,” Dean said, looking pained and rubbing his hands together self-consciously. “I dunno, it’s like, we’re on the level. Or something.”

To his surprise, Charlie nodded, her eyes bright.

“Unspoken attraction,” she said. “These things don’t always need words.” Dean nodded eagerly, but Charlie was continuing to speak. “In _fact_ , sometimes it’s better without them. Sometimes, you meet someone’s eyes and you think that you’re both thinking the same thing, when in actual fact you’re thinking sweet romantic thoughts, and they’re totally focused on the delicious cake they’re going to eat in a second.”

“He gets bread, not cakes,” Dean said, in a subdued voice. “You… maybe… have a point, though.”

“Just get him to talk to you,” Charlie said. “It doesn’t sound like it should be too hard. Invite him to sit down while you make him a cup of tea.”

“And then?” Dean said uncertainly, reaching down to pick at the wooden table again.

“And then… you _grill him_ about his family connections,” Charlie said, twirling her knife at him and grinning wickedly. “I won’t have my young Dean making an unsuitable match!”

“Damnit, Charlie,” Dean said, turning around to hide his smile. “OK, let’s get on. Those strawberries aren’t going to decorate the sponge cakes on their own, are they? And I’ve got to finish up this rose frosting and then start on the apple pie. The second batch of rolls are out, right? Sam should be putting the third batch in…”

“I’m on it!” came a faint voice from the back room.

“Good,” Dean called back, as grumpily as he could manage. His mind kept flitting back to the fact that his favourite customer would be showing up later today, all ruffled hair and intense eyes and toned, tanned arms. He got down to work with the rose water, pouring out a measure of boiling water and adding the petals. He picked one of them up before dropping it into the copper pan, rubbing its softness between his fingers. The blushed-pink shade was almost the exact same colour as the slight reddening in the guy’s cheeks, when Dean wished him a nice day and offered him a smile.

“Ah, young love,” Charlie sighed as she stepped past him, reaching for a small pan. Dean scowled at her.

“You’re younger than I am,” he said grouchily. “I’m going to check the display, we open in half an hour. Tell Sam to chop the apples.”

As he stomped pointedly through the heavy wooden door through to the bakery proper, Sam poked his head cautiously around the door to the back room.

“He hasn’t even _spoken_ to him?!” he said to Charlie, who shook her head and laughed.

                                                                  

**

Dean’s bakery was his pride and his joy. As he emerged into the largest room in the cottage, he surveyed it happily for a few moments, before picking up a cloth and a bucket from behind the counter and starting to wipe down the sturdy, simple wooden tables that filled the room, circle-topped den mothers with crowds of chair-cubs clustered close. The room was warm, bordering on airless, but that would soon change when they opened the doors in half an hour; as it was, the scents of sweet sugar, rough bread and fruit-filled temptations curled back and forth through the air, awaiting their chance to escape and entice customers to step inside.

Dean scrubbed the tables down meticulously, humming to himself. He could never stand the way some shopkeepers allowed their customers to sit in a solid inch of dust; the bakery was always spotless, wooden surfaces gleaming like amber, and little bouquets of flowers on every table. Dean lifted a vase of mixed tulips and daffodils, inspecting it carefully as he cleaned beneath it. The flowers were starting to wilt just a little; he’d fill all the vases with a little sweetened water to see them through the day, and then get up early to pick more tomorrow.

He didn’t pause in his work as he saw people stopping to gaze in at his window display as they went by; he always made sure there was an array of their most arresting delicacies there, to catch the eye and draw them in. Not that they had a terrible need to attract new custom; they could break even with the patronage of their regulars alone, if they needed, Dean thought with a little burst of pride. The bakery was very popular in the large town where they lived; the Lawrence herald had even been known to breakfast on one of their raspberry cream doughnuts as he made the morning announcements in the town square, his words thickened by the irresistible doughy sweetness. Once, an order for a large lemon cake had even come in from the Lord of Lawrence himself. Dean still got shivers down his spine when he remembered.

Things hadn’t always been so good, though. As hard as he worked, Dean knew that he owed a huge amount of the credit for his bakery’s success to his brother, Sam. The kid had all kinds of hopes and dreams, but he’d set them aside for the present, to help his brother run the shop. He was excellent at it, too: he was always happy to be up first, kneading the dough and stoking the bread oven, and his manner with the customers was fantastic. He could always tempt them into buying more than they’d originally come for, and they loved him for it, of course, though their purses didn’t always feel the same way. At the end of every day, Dean would punch his brother lightly on the shoulder and say, ‘good work, kiddo’, a paltry expression of his gourmet gratitude. Sam would roll his eyes, but Dean knew that he was glowing with pride inside, just like he always had done. Dean also knew that this wasn’t nearly enough. At some point, he was going to have to let Sam go. Hopefully before the kid accidentally brained himself on one of the low ceilings.

Sam wasn’t the only one who Dean owed for his bakery’s triumph, however. The arrival into their lives of Charlie Bradbury was something Dean would never forget. She’d come flying into their bakery kitchen via the side door one morning, her hair in disarray and her dress ragged. Without a word of explanation to the two brothers, who were standing frozen and open-mouthed at the far side of the room, she’d crouched and hidden under the table. Dean had been able to hear her frantic panting, and seen the way she’d shrunk back and in like a cornered fox when a knock had sounded at the door.

“Please,” she’d said, turning to Sam and Dean for the first time, looking up at them from beneath the table. She’d had tear tracks all down her cheeks, but her mouth had been stiff and untrembling. “Please, don’t make me go back with him.”

The knocking had come again, louder. Dean had squatted down in front of the table, keeping his distance so as not to frighten her.

“Who is he?” he’d asked. Charlie had swallowed hard before speaking, as though trying to dislodge a thorn in her throat.

“My stepfather,” she’d said. It had been at this point that Dean had noticed the big, ugly bruises on her neck, and a heavy welt on her arm visible through a tear in her dress.

The anger that he’d felt had been clear as cut diamond and twice as sharp. He’d looked up at Sam, and then moved towards the door. Behind him, he’d heard Sam throwing some heavy sacking over the table, letting it hang down over the edge to disguise Charlie’s hiding place. Before opening the door, he’d looked back and met Sam’s eyes. They’d shared a nod.

“Where is the little witch?” Charlie’s stepfather had raved, trying to shoulder his way into the cottage. “I’ve chased her three towns over! I know she’s in here! Let me _through_ –”

“Sir, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Dean had said, making his voice low and rough and commanding, “but you’re being very rude. My brother and I would be happy to show you some manners, if you ever turn up here again. You understand?” Sam had chosen this point to come looming into view behind Dean, his expression grim and unsmiling. Charlie’s stepfather had looked the brothers up and down, and in the face of their height, their anger and their strong, baker’s arms, had suddenly seemed to become very interested in leaving as fast as his legs could carry him.

That had been two years ago, and Dean had never once regretted his decision to save Charlie Bradbury. Within a year of her arrival, the bakery had been earning enough that he could afford to pay her a very good wage – which she’d spent on buying her own cottage, even tinier than this one, but entirely her own. And with huge, _huge_ locks on the doors. The secret to their success wasn’t just in the extra pair of hands that Charlie provided; it was in the things those hands could do.

The simple fact was that Charlie’s stepfather hadn’t been throwing insults when he’d called Charlie a little witch; in actual fact, his description had been entirely accurate. Charlie had a potent magical ability, which he’d been forcing her to work on, hoping to send her to a big city and have her trained as a warrior mage. Charlie admitted that in the long run, this lucrative line of work did sound tempting; for now, however, she was happy to hone her skills in Dean’s bakery. Dean had no objections; the things that Charlie could do were quite amazing. Their customers certainly thought so, too.

As he surveyed the display of their wares, Dean reflected again on what a talented witch Charlie really was. The gorgeous sparkling mists that hovered around their champagne cupcakes; the delicate, swaying miniature flower gardens on top of their rosewater sponges; the delicious, bitter-sugar bubbles revolving gently in poised position over their lemon cakes; every beguiling detail made Dean smile, and caught the attention of any passer-by who happened to come too close to the window. If they managed to escape without coming inside to sample the temptations, they would surely be back the next day. Charlie’s magic had a way of lingering in your mind, filling your dreams with her incomparable delicacies. She was too good, really, to be spending her life in backwater Lawrence, helping Dean run a shop. He was keenly aware of this, but couldn’t bear to point it out to her. These past two years had been the happiest of his life, all the more so because he knew they couldn’t last.

He snapped out of his increasingly dismal reverie, heading back towards the counter and making sure that the first batch of bread rolls for the day were displayed to best effect in their wicker baskets. They smelled magical, though there was no enchantment on them beyond the spell that Dean’s own personal recipe created: he’d always stood firm on that. Cakes and sweets and treats were one thing, but in his bakery, bread was just bread. Warm, fragrant, delicious and simple, as the signs advertised; available to buy as a loaf, or to eat in, with melting butter and sweet, homemade jam.

“Nearly ready to open?” Charlie called from the kitchen. Dean checked that Sam had laid out their stock of cakes in good order; they were all dazzlingly fresh, since Dean wasn’t above using a little of Charlie’s spellwork to ward off staleness. She always enjoyed performing that one, anyway; she said it was difficult, and she liked that. Her keenness for a challenge was one of Dean’s best assets – she was always changing up her repertoire and trying new recipes. He wasn’t sure exactly what she had planned with the strawberries this morning, but he was sure that it was going to be exceptional. It always was.

“Ready,” he called back, poking his head around the door and beaming at Charlie. She smiled back at him, even as she pulled her wand – a cheap rowan stick – out of her belt, and pointed it at a large, white-frosted cake. Beside it was a copper pot of strawberries, some sliced neatly in half, others chopped into tiny cubes. With a wave of her wand and a string of quick, sharply-spoken words that Dean didn’t understand, the strawberries rose up out of the bowl and began to arrange themselves on top of the cake; the larger segments forming a kind of hollow column with a ring around the edge, and the smaller cubes flowing into the ring, up the column and over, spraying back down into the pool at the bottom and round again.

“What shall we call it? Strawberry Fountain Cake?” Charlie said, grinning at Dean.

“Charlie,” Dean said, watching the strawberries moving on an endless, entrancing loop. “You’re something else.”

“I know, Dean,” she said, her eyes sparkling nevertheless. She tucked her wand away. “I know.”

“Got the second batch,” Sam said, walking into the kitchen from the back room with his strong arms bulging under the weight of two big baskets of bread rolls. “And the third one’s just about ready to take out. Want me to open the doors?”

“I’ll do it,” Dean said, taking the bread from his brother with a little grunt. “You’ve been up for three hours, have another tea and a roll yourself. You didn’t eat breakfast yet, did you?”

Without waiting for the answer he knew was coming, Dean hefted the wicker baskets in his arms, jerking them so that a single, precariously-balanced roll flopped off the top and began to fall; with his quick reflexes, Sam snatched it out of the air.

“Get us the butter out of the larder,” Dean said over his shoulder, grinning at his brother as he took the bread out into the bakery proper and set it on the shelves underneath his counter, ready to replace the first batch on display as soon as they sold out. He wound his way through the tables, heading for the door; through the whorled-glass panel, he could make out people queuing already. He smiled to himself before shooting back the iron bolt, lifting the latch and throwing the door open, his arms raised welcomingly.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!” he called, stepping backwards and allowing people into the shop; their laughter and murmuring filled the room, and Dean had to shout to be heard. “Welcome back to our beautiful bakery. What’ll it be today, folks? What do you fancy? Our sweetest delights? Bread for breakfast? Would you like tea with that, or water? Not ale this early, I’m sure,” he said, with a wink to Benny, who grinned back. “Make good choices, people!”

The morning rush was as dense as ever. Dean served customer after customer, most of whom were stopping by for breakfast on their way to work. He exchanged a few friendly words with each, and shook Benny’s hand as he handed him a strawberry doughnut, promising to meet him for a drink that evening. He found himself constantly scanning the crowded bakery – his heart leaping every time he saw short brown hair, or a flash of blue eyes. He shook his head at himself, every time it happened; after all, the man he was waiting for had never come in before lunch before. And besides, was he really going to wait on his arrival all day, like a princess stuck in a tower awaiting her knightly deliverance?

Apparently he was, Dean thought a few hours later, when the bakery had quietened down and he found himself at the window, peering up and down the street. It was still only ten in the morning, but he was as restless as a cat on hot bricks, moving around the bakery with a kind of detached, ineffectual diligence.

“You look like you’ve got an imp up your tunic,” Charlie observed as she brought out another Strawberry Fountain cake – the first one had been demolished within the first hour after opening. “He’ll either come or he won’t, Dean. Come and have a cup of tea whilst it’s quiet.”

But Dean couldn’t settle. Sam and Charlie shared exasperated looks as he rescrubbed the tables, polished down the countertop, deadheaded the flowers in their vases, inched cakes and sponges left and right by fractions to achieve the perfect effect in the window display, and finally began cleaning down the stove.

“Dean,” Sam said, “if the guy actually notices the state of our stove, then he’s not interested in you romantically, he’s just a health inspector.”

Dean turned betrayed eyes on Charlie, who held up her hands in a gesture of innocence.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said, “if you talk about your love life with me in the room next door, do you _really_ expect me not to hear?”

“I’m going to make the apple pies for lunch,” Dean said haughtily, throwing down the cloth that he’d been using to clean the stove. Sam shrugged and went to man the front counter, telling Charlie as he went that the next batch of bread would need to be taken out in ten minutes, and she should come and get him then. Charlie nodded and got back to work, using Dean’s rosewater frosting to fashion beautiful pairs of butterfly wings, intricately lined and veined, which she placed on top of their standard vanilla cupcakes and set to flapping with a wave of her wand. Even Dean, sprinkling the central table with flour in preparation for rolling out his pastry, was begrudgingly impressed.

“Not bad,” he said, watching the twitching, flickering wings. “Maybe we should put a streak of jam down the centre, for a body.”

“Nice touch,” Charlie replied appreciatively, and set to it. She didn’t say anything more as she worked, and Dean felt his sudden bad mood begin to unwind in the silence. He made short work of rolling out the pastry, his strong arms used to the exertion. He sighed, and Charlie looked over at him, her eyes bright with understanding.

“I just – it’s so stupid to like this guy,” Dean said. “I don’t want anyone to know, but at the same time I want everyone to know… it doesn’t make sense. I’m all mixed up about it. And I’ve never even _talked_ with him.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Charlie agreed, and Dean glared at her. “You’re up and down like a gnome on a trampoline. But that’s _normal_ , Dean.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not normal to feel like this about someone I’ve never had a conversation with,” Dean said. “I’m pretty sure.”

“It’s just a crush, Dean,” Charlie said, smiling. She waved her wand over the pot of jam and the last cupcake received its sliver of strawberry sweetness down the centre. “That’s all. You must’ve had one before.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean replied, thinking back. He pulled open a drawer and extracted a pie tin from within, and began greasing it with butter. “They didn’t feel like this, though. It was all just – easy.”

“This could be easy, too,” Charlie pointed out, picking up the jam and moving over to the larder to put it away in the cool, dark cupboard. “You just have to arrange a date. Make it all a bit more normal for yourself. You’ll feel much better that way, right?”

“He’s got to,” Sam said, reappearing in the doorway and making for the back room to take out the bread. “He’s going to leave a faceprint on the window if he’s not careful. Health-Inspector crush won’t be impressed by that.”

“Shut up,” Dean said, blushing as he lifted the pastry into the pie tin and began to tuck it into the edges. “I know, I know, you’re right. I’ll – I’ll find a way to get him to stay for longer today. Maybe I’ll get him to sit down and have a cake.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Sam said with a grin, emerging from the back room. “Our cakes are pretty irresistible.”

It was true, Dean thought, they were. If the guy managed to turn down a cake from his bakery, he was either lactose-intolerant, or definitely not interested in Dean.

**

The lunchtime rush came and went, and Dean felt his nerves mounting. His heart thumped painfully every time someone walked in the door, and then sank like a rock in water when he looked up to see that it wasn’t his favourite customer. To appease Charlie and Sam, he’d stopped peering out of the window; instead, he stood behind the counter, leaning on it as casually as he could with the bakery’s books in front of him. He knew how the columns added up – at least, he thought he did, Sam had more patience with figures than he did – but he wanted to be doing something when the guy walked in, so that it didn’t look as though he were waiting for him. Of course, it wouldn’t look as though he were waiting, anyway… he had a somewhat legitimate reason to be in the shop, since he owned it. Dean shook his head at himself, but continued to add up the month’s earnings regardless. If Sam really did go away, Dean would have to get used to doing this all the time.

Another half-hour passed. It was three-thirty, the exact time when the guy had come in the last time. There was no one else in the bakery; this was always their quietest part of the day. Dean shoved away the books, and moved around the counter. Maybe he should try to display himself to best advantage? It worked so well with the cakes. He tried leaning back against the counter, hips thrust forwards; too uncomfortable. He adjusted, and then turned, curving his spine as far as he could so that his butt was on show. He held the pose for a moment, and then dropped it, laughing at himself. He was being ridiculous. Absolutely, completely ridiculous.

Straightening, he looked down at his green tunic, and brushed a little flour off the front. It was short-sleeved, and showed off his muscled arms; that was good, right? He’d drawn his belt tight to disguise the little tummy he had, from taste-testing – OK, more than taste-testing, he thought, remembering the rolls and cakes he’d eaten so far today. He regretted them, now. Was there time to go for a run? Was it possible gain visible abdominal muscles with a few sit-ups?

Worth a try, Dean thought, getting down on the ground in front of the counter and putting his arms behind his head. _One. Two. Three._ It wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be; he was in better shape than he'd thought he was. _Four. Five. Six._ Actually, it was quite enjoyable. He should exercise like this more often. _Seven. Eight. Nine –_

The door was pushed open. As if in slow motion, Dean halted at the top of his sit-up, his hands still clasped behind his head, his mouth falling open. Through the door, walking in a full corona of light from the afternoon sun, came a man with brown hair and bright blue eyes; Dean watched with a kind of detached horror as the man’s gaze swept the room, took in the unmanned counter, the empty tables, and finally – sitting on the ground, looking like he was trying to pull off a modelling pose and failing – Dean.

“Uh. Uh,” Dean said, remembering how to move and getting to his feet. “Hi! Hi, sorry about that, I was just – I just dropped something, and then I got a – a cramp, in both my arms, so I had to stretch it out…”

The man was watching him from the doorway as though waiting to be invited in; dropping his awkwardness and pulling on his salesman persona, Dean smiled and opened his arms invitingly.

“Come on in!” he said. “There’s warm rolls, just how you like ‘em. You want to come and choose your flavour of jam?”

The man’s face had relaxed as Dean smiled, and he nodded as he moved across the room. The afternoon air had a low, sleepy warmth to it, the sunlight coating the surfaces like thick honey; Dean admired the way it brought out the warmer tones in the man’s hair, and the light tan of his skin. He was wearing a soft-looking tunic in expensive red, and high boots over tight leggings. Dean swallowed as the man reached the counter and looked down at the array of jams – strawberry, raspberry, plum, peach, apricot and more – with his usual intensity. Dean kept his hands busy by picking out a roll from the wicker basket beside him, one from the bottom so that it was nice and warm, and cutting it neatly in half. He scooped up a fan of butter with a knife and smoothed it over the soft, fluffy inside of the roll, watching the bright yellow soften to gold as it melted.

Looking back at his customer, Dean caught his eye for a moment; immediately, the man looked away, staring hard at the jams as though his life depended on it whilst a slow blush tinted his cheeks, rising as soft and beautiful as a red velvet cake in the oven. Dean felt his face turning a matching pink, and a huge smile blossomed like a poppy in the sunlight. Had the guy been staring at him? It certainly seemed so, and the realisation turned all the thoughts in Dean’s head into a series of exclamation points. His fingers were trembling slightly.

“So, uh, you decided what you want?” Dean said, looking back over at the guy, not bothering to smother his smile. The man nodded and pointed at the pot of raspberry, before looking up at Dean. He seemed a little taken aback, at first, by what he saw in Dean’s face. His eyes widened and he leaned back slightly, but just as Dean’s beam was about to dim, it was returned; the man smiled at him, his eyes bright and brilliant, crinkling a little at the corners.

Dean picked up the raspberry jam and opened it, allowing a few moments of silence before clearing his throat.

“So,” he said. “You… like raspberry?”

He groaned internally. Of all the things in the world that he could possibly have said, of all the combinations of words that he might potentially have used, his brain had decided to go with, “You like raspberry?” The damn jam on his knife was smoother than he was.

The man, though, didn’t seem to mind. He nodded, with a spark of humour in his eyes that told Dean his poor conversational skills hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“That’s probably good, seeing as you’re getting it in this roll,” Dean said, trying to seem at least slightly witty. He finished lathering the jam over the melted butter, and cleared his throat again. “Is this to take away or eat in?”

The man paused. Normally, he just pointed to a take-away bag, and that was that. Today, though, he seemed to be unsure; Charlie’s advice springing to Dean’s mind, he said impulsively,

“Eat in. I’ll make you a cup of tea to go with it, on the house.” The man watched him for a second, and Dean shifted awkwardly under his blue lantern gaze. “You don’t – it’s not a –”

But Dean’s feeble protestations were cut short. The man nodded, once, with another little smile – that made _two_ smiles today – and held out his payment, including the extra penny to eat in. Dean could’ve jumped for joy, but he restrained himself as best he could, clenching his fist in victory under the counter as he accepted the coins in the other hand.

“Great,” he said, as casually as he could. He pushed the guy’s roll towards him over the counter. “Have a seat, and I’ll get you that tea.”

He ducked into the kitchen as the guy turned to take a seat, almost crashing straight into Charlie and Sam, who grinned at him unashamedly and gave him a pair of thumbs-up.

“You guys were listening?” Dean demanded in a stage-whisper, so that the man wouldn’t hear him.

“Yes,” Charlie said, as though it were obvious – and of course it was, Dean thought with a smile. He shook his head and went over to the stove, wrapping his hand in the rough cloth and picking the kettle up off the top.

“It’s going well, right?” Dean said to them, beaming, as he put the kettle down on top of a wooden chopping board on the table. His heart was still beating too fast in his chest, sounding out a drumbeat that he was trying to keep up with, moving across the room with unnecessary speed and almost knocking over Charlie’s latest Strawberry Fountain cake. He flung open a cupboard on the far side of the room and selected a china cup and miniature teapot, one of the floral ones without any chips.

“Hard to tell,” Sam was saying, “given that we only have one half of the conversation.”

“Huh?” Dean was trying to shake tea leaves out of a tin and into the teapot, grab a strainer out of a drawer and pick up a tray, all at once. Charlie moved to help him, whilst Sam went on,

“Well, you know, either he’s got a voice that only dogs can hear, or he’s not saying anything. Is he mouthing stuff at you, or what?”

“Oh – oh, yeah,” Dean said, realising that it was true. The guy still hadn’t spoken a word to him. He frowned; it hadn’t felt as though anything were lacking in their exchange, so much so that he hadn’t even noticed that the man hadn’t said anything at all. “No, he – he didn’t say much. Well, anything. Yet. But I’m gonna take him his tea, and maybe I’ll – I’ll just sort of…”

“You’re going to take two cups with you,” Charlie said firmly, “and you’re going to go over there and sit down and have a proper _conversation_ , Dean Winchester. You’re not letting this opportunity go. If you spend all this week mooning around like you did most of today, either Sam or I will be forced to take drastic action.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Dean muttered, but he allowed Charlie to put a second cup on the tray, next to the teapot. Feeling his cheeks beginning to blush brilliantly and his heartbeat starting to rise even further, he dipped his head and walked back through to the shop. The man was sitting next to the window, chewing appreciatively on his roll with his eyes closed. Dean swallowed. The tips of his fingers were tingling.

He began to walk over, his legs feeling more and more wobbly with every step. This was crazy. Of course the guy wouldn’t want to talk to Dean. If he wanted to, he would’ve already _done_ it, right? But then… the way that he looked up at Dean at the sound of his approach made Dean’s heart leap. His whole body was humming as he put the tray down on the table. He waited for the guy to notice the second cup, and then smiled.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” he said, trying not to come across as too nervous or too aloof or too overfriendly – man, there were so many ways that this could go wrong – but the guy nodded, and gestured to the seat opposite him. Dean slid into it, unable to believe his luck. The man smiled, and Dean grinned back, folding his hands in front of him and then remembering about the tea.

“Let me pour that out for you,” Dean said, picking up the strainer and placing it on top of the nicer cup. “It’s a technique, you see. If you pour it too fast, it goes all over the place. Maybe you knew that, though?” he asked, trying to get a conversation going, but the man simply shook his head and took another bite of his roll.

“That’s good?”

The man nodded.

“Well, I guess it must be, since you keep coming back.” Dean grinned at the guy and raised his eyebrows, hoping for some kind of reaction – a flirtatious glance, maybe, or – or just a declaration of love, that would be fine, too –

The man kept chewing his bread, and said nothing. He was looking down at the tea, as though waiting for it to do something.

“Oh, right,” Dean said, feeling his chest sink a little but persevering. “You take sugar? Milk?”

The man nodded to both, so Dean added a little of each and then stirred it with a spoon.

“You’re lucky this isn’t melted,” Dean said, tapping the spoon against the rim of the cup when the tea was an even sienna. “The one I used this morning was all bent out of shape. I guess that’s what happens when you use a teaspoon to stir hot caramel.”

The man swallowed his mouthful and smiled, reaching for his cup of tea with a gentle nod of thanks and blowing on the surface to cool it. The steam curled up, drawing thin patterns over his face. Dean felt as though his hold on the situation was as loose as those vapour whirls, unfurling further with every moment.

“Uh, so. Uh. I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean tried. _Surely_ the guy would have to answer that, with his own name. He looked up at Dean and shifted slightly in his seat, before nodding and smiling, and taking a sip of his tea. Dean sighed and leaned forward in his chair.

“So what’s your name?” he said. The man paused for a moment, meeting Dean’s eyes, before looking away and taking a huge gulp of tea. It was still a little too hot; Dean could see his face reddening and wetness in his eyes as he swallowed the boiling liquid down. Dean leaned back in his chair, running one hand over his face.

He took a moment to stare at the guy. Dean had been thinking about him all day, but somehow hadn’t ever managed to do him justice; he was absolutely _gorgeous_ , handsome and strong and well-dressed, with impeccable taste in jam. Dean was a little smitten, he couldn’t deny it. And when they looked at each other, there really did seem to be this – this unspoken attraction, just like Charlie had said, a kind of silent understanding, a wordless magnetism, as irresistible as Strawberry Fountain cake. And yet – the guy just wouldn’t _talk_ to him. Should Dean leave, now? That seemed incredibly rude, seeing as he had just sat down, but maybe he was making the man uncomfortable? But he didn’t _want_ to leave, not without making some kind of step forward, or at least understanding what was going on. There was nothing for it, Dean decided. He was going to have to ask.

“OK,” he said suddenly, and the man looked up at him, surprised. “I’ve gotta ask. Look, man, is there anything… happening… here?”

The guy tilted his head to one side, though there was an edge to his gaze that suggested he understood what Dean was driving at, but didn’t really want to talk about it. Dean pressed on, regardless. He’d come this far.

“It’s just – sometimes I think, like, we look at each other, and… you know,” Dean said, losing his nerve a little, stumbling. The man was giving him nothing, his face blank as a slate. “But then, I sit down here, and I’m trying to talk to you – am I making you uncomfortable? I can go…”

But the man was shaking his head now, vehemently. His hands came up and wrapped around Dean’s, which were clasped nervously on the tabletop. The touch was unexpected, sending sparks of fire up Dean’s spine. But _still_ , the man didn’t speak.

“OK, well, then – it’s just – I don’t know what’s going on, right? It’s getting weird now, you know? Because I’m talking to you and all you do is stare at me, and it’s like –” the man stood up, suddenly enough to make Dean gasp. His face was bright red, and he looked absolutely – Dean had no other word for it – distraught, though Dean couldn’t understand why; had he said something awful? “Wait! Where are you –” Dean began, but the man had already turned on his heel, and walked out of the shop.

The door creaked closed behind him, slowly. Dean watched the man walk away down the street through the window, with disbelief sinking in his chest like a rock through caramel, settling under his lungs with a jagged top edge against his heart.

After a few minutes, he took a sip of his cooling tea. His hands were still shaking.

After ten more minutes, he stood up and went to the kitchen. Sam and Charlie were both bent diligently to their tasks, and definitely did not see or hear him come in. They were giving him the space to avoid talking about it, Dean guessed, for which he was grateful.

“So you saw all of that,” Dean said, and they spun around, affecting surprise. “How much did you hear?”

“Not – not all of it,” Charlie said, coming around to place a floury hand on Dean’s shoulder. “What happened? Did he say why he left?”

“No,” Dean said hollowly, looking down at the floor and scuffing his feet. “He didn’t say _anything_.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a quiet haze of over-analysis and self-accusation. Dean blamed himself for talking too much, and then for not saying enough; for trying to make things move too fast for the guy; for even existing on the mortal plain, at some points. Charlie and Sam moved around him like moons kept in orbit by the weight of his heavy heart, cleaning up the bakery, packing away ingredients and scrubbing down the stove whilst he meandered between tasks, never getting anything finished.

“You’re meeting Benny for a drink tonight, right?” Sam said, as he began to wash up the day’s conglomeration of dirty pots and pans. “How ‘bout you get going? Charlie and I can finish up here, and you look like you could use that drink.”

Dean nodded glumly, and went upstairs to retrieve his cloak before heading into the cool outdoors. The days were lengthening as spring went on, but the streets that evening were just barely twilit with dabs of tired light. The air was tense and a little chilled. Dean ducked his head, so that he wouldn’t have to speak to anybody. His chest ached, and he didn’t want to talk about it. He also didn’t know how he would talk about anything else.

Inside the pub a few minutes later, he cast his eye around for Benny and found him sitting at the bar, already nursing a pint of beer. Dean pushed his way through the throng, making sure he didn’t catch anyone’s gaze and get hooked into a conversation. He slid onto the stool beside Benny and gestured a greeting to Ellen, who nodded and began to pull him a pint. The low hubbub of the pub eased the pain in Dean’s chest a little, filling the cavity that had been aching since the man had stormed out of the bakery.

After several moments of quiet, in which Dean stared down at the wooden grain of the bar and picked a loose splinter, Benny looked over at him.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked.

Dean jerked his head up.

“Talk about what?” he said, feigning ignorance with little success. Benny raised his eyebrows.

 “You walk in here with a face like the back end of a storm, and don’t even stop to say hello before ordering your beer?” he said. “Come on, Dean, I’m not stupid.”

Ellen pushed Dean’s pint towards him, and he took a deep, grateful sip before replying.

“Ahh,” he said, letting his shoulders unwind. “Sorry, Benny. Rough day.”

“Seemed fine when I saw you earlier,” Benny remarked, taking a swig of his own drink. He wasn’t looking at Dean, giving him the freedom to answer or ignore the statement. Dean took another sip and sighed. Benny was one of his best friends, and he always had his head on straight when it came to giving advice. In as few words as possible, Dean explained what had happened.

“Talking to him was supposed to make things easier,” Dean finished. “I was supposed to be able to tell whether I really liked him, or if it was just some weird little thing that stopped as soon as I actually got to know the guy at all. But now… I feel so much worse. I should never have tried to push things along. I was so happy this morning, I should’ve just kept my distance. Everything would have been fine.”

The pub was getting louder and more raucous as the night got later. Dean glanced over his shoulder and snorted as a pint of beer was thrown from one end of the room to the other, and the perpetrator received a stern telling-off from Ellen.

“Look, I don’t know this guy,” Benny said, his eyes on his drink. “But it sounds to me like he does like you, but maybe don’t know how to show it. Maybe he’s nervous, maybe he’s just a quiet type, I don’t know. But I think you should give yourself a break, brother. I don’t think you did much wrong.”

Dean took a long, long draught of beer, and smacked his lips together.

“You think?” he said.

“Yeah. ‘cept maybe when you said he kept on staring at you. Makes it sound like you think he’s a creeper.”

“What – but – _I_ was the one feeling like a creeper!” Dean said, a little too defensively, and Benny held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, Benny, sorry. This is just all inside my head, that’s all.”

“That’s alright. We all have our nights.”

They spent most of the rest of the evening drinking companionably, talking about Benny’s new job working at the butcher’s, and speculating about the possibilities of a collaboration.

“Meat pies, Dean,” Benny said, waving his hand through the air as though he could make them appear, just like that. “Just think about it. You don’t have meat and I can’t make pastry, but together…”

It did sound like an attractive proposition, Dean had to admit. Probably a lucrative one, too. He’d have to talk to Sam and Charlie about it in the morning, and see what they thought. Benny offered to buy the next round of drinks, but Dean decided to call it a night after his second pint, and wandered home. The man was still on his mind, more than he’d have admitted to anyone. His face as he’d stood up… _why_ had he been so hurt by Dean’s words? And why wouldn’t he just _talk_ to Dean about it? When Dean finally collapsed into bed that night, his dreams were troubled, full of silent friends and wordless puzzles.

**

The next morning dawned bright and clear as a waterfall pool. Dean woke with the rising of the sun, and blinked a couple of times, pressing his face into his scratchy sheets and wondering why his chest hurt. When he remembered, it was like a little punch to the gut. He lifted his covers over his head and groaned.

Downstairs, he could hear the sound of Sam taking the first batch of bread rolls out of the oven. Dean allowed himself a few moments of self-pity before ripping back the covers and rolling upright, his shoulders squared.

So, sure, yesterday had been an embarrassing disaster that he would probably never forget for as long as he lived, barring a Forgetfulness Curse (tempting, Dean thought). But that was no reason to sit around and behave like some limp-haired romantic hero, writing sonnets and weeping to the sound of a lyre. He wasn’t a hero, he was a _baker_. And it was time to get up and bake.

He stomped downstairs with a determined forcefulness that saw him through most of the morning. Charlie and Sam, seeing the steely glint in his eyes, left him alone; he worked more swiftly than he ever had before, rolling out pie after pie and frosting sweet lemon cupcakes with almost magical finesse. The customers came and went in a blur of determined politeness and iron-tight smiles. When they stopped for lunch, Dean blinked and looked at the clock; he’d thought it was barely ten, but it was almost half past two.

“Dean,” Sam said uncertainly, as they stood in the shop together, clustered around the counter and chewing on bread rolls. “Are you… is everything OK?”

“I’m fine,” Dean said, the words grinding out through his metal-gear throat. “I’m fine.”

“It’s just, you seem to be…” Sam looked to Charlie for help.

“Wound a little tight,” she finished, licking a little bit of jam off her hand. “Like a clock that’s about to explode.”

“What, me?” Dean said, making an effort to relax his voice, and sound normal. It didn’t entirely work. “Nah, I’m fine. I’m just – it’s all pretty embarrassing, you know. But I’m fine, I just need a day or two.”

“You’ll be OK,” Sam agreed, but the look he shared with Charlie was still tinged with concern. Dean pretended not to see; he didn’t have the energy to address all their worries. Like he’d said, he just needed a little time to get over things. And he would, he would. Within a week, he’d probably have forgotten all about the guy. After all, it wasn’t as though he’d ever be coming back –

There was the sound of footsteps, entering the shop.

“Oh…” Charlie said. Dean, who was leaning on the counter and facing away from the door, looked up at her face. She was wearing the exact same expression as Sam; surprise mingled with awkwardness, and a dash of concern. Without even turning around, Dean knew who he would see standing in the doorway.

“We’ll – we’ll give you some space,” Charlie said, grabbing Sam’s arm and tugging on the too-short sleeve of his tunic. “To talk. Uh, not talk. What – whatever it is that you guys do best. OK. Let’s go, Sam.” Dean’s cheeks were burning and he hadn’t even turned around yet. Trying to gather himself together, he carefully set his unfinished raspberry-jam roll down and moved around the counter, so that when he saw the man, it would be from behind the ramparts of his baker’s castle.

He looked up.

The man was standing there, just as Dean had known he would be.

His sandy-coloured tunic gripped his tanned arms, hugged his chiselled body. Dean glared at it.

The man approached the counter, his arms behind his back in a strange, uncomfortable pose. His face was flitting between expressions, on the cusp of a smile that was being beaten back by the nervousness in his eyes.

“You came back,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice light, as though it were a matter of little importance. The guy nodded, and then opened his mouth – Dean’s heart leapt, was he going to…? But he simply sighed, and then pulled a sheaf of thick, expensive-looking sheets of paper out from behind his back. On the front of the first one was a single sentence, written in thick black ink.

 _My name is Castiel_ , it read. Dean blinked, and then looked up at the man.

“Castiel?” he sounded out, checking his pronunciation. The man nodded, and offered him a small, brief smile. Outside the bakery, Dean could hear the usual sounds of the street, and behind him, the noises of Sam and Charlie being determinedly busy; in this room, however, the silence was thick as a three-layered cake.

The man picked up the front card and let it fall to the floor. Behind it, the next card had more writing on it, longer than the first.

 _I cannot be heard,_ it read. _I can speak, and I can hear myself, but no one else can hear me. I was cursed to be this way._

Almost before Dean had finished reading, Castiel had dropped the card and moved on to the next one.

_The only other person who will ever be able to hear me speak is my One True Love._

Dean read this sentence quickly, and then looked up at Castiel with wide eyes. His mouth was moving, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Your One True Love? Seriously?” he finally managed to croak. Castiel lifted one shoulder and dropped the card. The next one read,

_I know, talk about a cliché._

Dean laughed, and Castiel smiled at him. For a moment, Dean felt it again – that sensation he’d always had when they looked at each other, the flare of excitement, of understanding. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something to say, but Castiel was already moving on:

_I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable._

“No,” Dean said immediately, flushing and feeling slow, creeping embarrassment. He’d asked someone _cursed to be silent_ why they wouldn’t talk to him. Oh god, he’d said it was weird. No wonder Castiel had been so upset. “No, I’m the one who should be –”

 _I enjoyed coming here very much,_ the next card read.

“You did? I always kinda, uh, hoped, I guess –”

_The bread is absolutely delicious._

“Oh,” said Dean. “Well. Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

_But I must admit that the main reason I came –_

Dean’s heart began to race, pounding painfully hard against his ribs like an over-excitable friend nudging him at the most dramatic part of the story; he tried to ignore it and focus on Castiel’s face, which was brimming with emotion. He dropped the card, and Dean took a breath, and read the next one.

_Was you._

Dean’s breath stopped. He couldn’t remember how to take in air, and suddenly that didn’t seem important; he could definitely survive on this feeling, this sparkling glorious Strawberry Fountain cake in his chest. He realised suddenly that he wasn’t smiling – no, wait, he was, he just hadn’t realised it, it had happened without him noticing – a smile so big and heartfelt that he thought his face might not contain it. Castiel was watching him, his eyes huge and round, and his mouth fighting back a matching smile. He dropped the card; Dean almost moved to catch it, hug it to his chest, read it over a hundred thousand times to check that it was real – but the next card caught his eye.

_I know this situation is strange._

“You got that about right,” Dean said, grinning. Castiel let the card fall, revealing the next.

_But perhaps, if we spent some time together –_

Dean’s fingers were tingling again. His head was spinning like he’d just downed a whole flute of champagne.

_You could possibly –_

Castiel bit his lip. Dean wanted to lean over and slap the card out of his hands – the one underneath had to be the last one, sheaf of papers almost completely depleted – but he restrained himself, let Castiel do it in his own time. Every inch of him was expectation, from the tips of his curled fingers, through the fizz in his stomach, all the way down to his toes. At last, Castiel let the card fall.

_Like me too._

Dean couldn’t help himself. He leaned over the counter, grabbed Castiel by the front of his tunic, pulled him in, and kissed him.

And kissed him again.

And pulled away, and looked into his eyes, which were brimming with tears, just like his own.

And leaned in.

And kissed him again.

**

_Three months later_

“Say something.”

Cas shook his head.

“Say something.”

Again, the head shake.

“ _Say_ something.”

Cas looked over at Dean, and scowled.

They had been together for three months. Three long, happy months, some of the very best of Dean’s entire life. The bakery had flourished through the Spring and was set fair for Summer, with fresh fruits and flowers easily available, and new customers blooming up with equal prolificacy. Dean didn’t know if it had been his own happiness rubbing off on Sam and Charlie, but things in the kitchen had never been better; they spent long, happy days baking and frosting and buttering and kneading, enjoying each other’s company to the backdrop of the scent of bread and sugar, and the sounds of appreciative customers.

As much as Dean had been loving his work, he also found himself watching the clock as the afternoons faded to a close, the days like ragged, beloved old coats, thin enough to show the stars through the red-orange material. When Sam and Charlie permitted, Dean would leave the bakery behind, flinging off his apron and heading straight to Castiel’s house, still covered in flour and aching from the day’s work. After a week, Dean called him Cas. After two weeks, he called him babe. After two months, he called him love.

And that was what they were arguing about, with increasing regularity. Dean knew that Cas was scared; knew that he didn’t want to speak in front of Dean, just in case Dean couldn’t hear him. What would they do then? Continue, and hope that Dean would one day become Cas’ One True Love? But would things ever really be the same – would there always be that edge, that serrated knife-edge in their relationship that would slowly slit through the threads that bound them together? Would they come apart as easily as they’d sewn themselves together?

Dean hoped not. But there was no way to be sure, and Cas was scared. His fear made him angry. He was still scowling at Dean now, sitting next to him in the ruins of the White Palace, as they watched the sun go down together. The stubbled walls and loose bricks around them were more beige, now, than white, but that in no way diminished the Palace’s extraordinary beauty. Dean was sitting on the step below Cas, on a smooth marble staircase that led up to the pair of broken thrones on the dais above.

“Say something,” Dean said, again. This time, Cas tugged his hand out of Dean’s hold, and looked away.

Dean had gone to Charlie about the curse, asking her to break it. She’d laughed at him.

“Do you know how hard it is to _cast_ a curse like that, let alone break it?” she’d said. “Imagine it like… a tapestry, woven around Cas by the witch who cursed him. Now imagine trying to unpick that tapestry, thread by thread.”

“Can’t you just set fire to the tapestry?” Dean hazarded, but Charlie had rolled her eyes at him. She’d promised to do some research, with Sam’s help, but so far they’d had no luck.

“What kind of backward witch uses the old One True Love anymore, anyway?” Charlie had demanded, and Dean agreed. It was stupid. The whole thing was so _stupid._

Dean sighed. The sunset was even more beautiful than usual; there were a few scudding clouds, backlit in peach and pink like blushing bites of a nectarine. The sun itself was low enough in the sky to lose its searing brightness, and was dimmed to a gorgeous golden semi-circle. High above, night was painting in the gaps left by the day’s departure in deep indigoes and purples.

“I love you,” Dean said. He felt Cas go tense beside him. He paused for a moment, and then looked up at Cas’ face. “I love you,” he repeated, just as strong and certain as before. Cas opened his mouth, and then closed it. His hand sought Dean’s, wrapped it up tight.

“I love you,” Dean said, one more time. “And I know this is scary, and you want to give it more time, and make sure. I know you’re scared I’ll leave if I don’t hear you, but… Cas… I don’t love anyone the way I love you, and I never will again. And if that’s not a One True Love, then – then what is?”

Cas swallowed, and took his gaze off Dean to look back at the sunset. His eyes relaxed, as though he found the burning star less bright to watch than Dean’s face, caught in an expression tangled between hope and fear.

“I love you,” Dean says. “Do you love me?”

Cas looked at him. He blinked, once, and swallowed. He opened his mouth, took a breath in –

“Wait! Wait.” Dean pushed a hand over Cas’ mouth, and held it there. Cas watched him over the top, a pair of confused blue eyes made almost purple by the deep, saturated light. “You gotta be sure. I don’t want you to say it unless you’re sure. If you wanna wait…” Suddenly, Dean was full of Cas’ fear, uncertain, a pain in his chest that seemed to presage catastrophe. “If it’s not filling you up so full that you can’t help but say it, then you shouldn’t try. It’s gotta pour over the top of you, like it’s too much to keep in. If it’s not like that, you shouldn’t say it, OK? Don’t say it unless you can’t help saying it. I’ll ask again, and you’ll know.”

Cas gazed into Dean’s eyes for a long, long moment. Dean gripped his gaze like the mast of a sailboat, about to plunge into the storm.

“I – I love you, Cas,” he said. “I love you. Do you love me?”

There was a pause, in which Dean could have sworn he heard the Palace hold its breath, the creakings of the Earth go silent for a moment, the planetary movements fall still and wait, wait, wait.

Castiel opened his mouth. He took a breath in. And then –

“I love you,” he said. And the silence was broken.

Dean’s mouth fell open. Cas stared at him, his eyes roving over Dean’s face, trying desperately to read his expression. “I love you,” he repeated desperately. “I love you. I love you. Can you hear me? Dean, can you –”

Dean reached up instinctively, putting his hand to the side of Cas’ face. He stroked his thumb along Cas’ cheek, strong and soothing, holding him steady.

“I hear you,” he said hoarsely, his throat as dry as sand. “I hear you. You said you loved me. I can hear you.”

With a little gasp – of shock, of relief, Dean would never know – Cas leaned down and kissed him, with more intensity, more certainty than he ever had before. It was like an oasis to Dean’s desert, pulling him out of his fear and through hope and all the way to joy, pure liquid joy that filled him up to brimming. He kissed Cas back, moving the hand on his cheek to cup Cas’ neck, allowing himself to smile against Cas’ lips, to believe it.

“I heard you,” he said, roughly. He pulled back to look at Cas, two tears sliding down his smiling face. “Your voice is like a rockfall. It’s amazing.”

Cas blushed, as beautiful as a rose petal.

“I love you,” he said softly. “I love you.”

Dean kissed him again, firm and reassuring.

“I hear you,” he said, smiling, crying. “I love you, too. I hear you.”

 

 

 

                                                                        

**Author's Note:**

> a note from [castihalo](http://castihalo.tumblr.com), the artist: ssh i know this scene doesn’t exist in the fic but i like to think that Dean finally got Cas to try the Strawberry Fountain Cake….though with a little bit of mess on his face. (Dean likes it though.)


End file.
